Beautiful Big
by Child of a Broken Dawn
Summary: Daisy Buchanan finds herself alone for the first time. Post-book.


**A/N: **I've read the book twice and seen the movie once. The first reading, I wrote Daisy off as a caricature, as it's tempting to do. The second time, though, something began to stick in my craw about her. The movie only made that feeling stronger. I wanted to make her stand alone and account for herself to some extent. And so this fic was born.

* * *

It was stupid, really. We just got into this row, you see, over almost nothing. We row for the tiniest things and make up in just a hot minute. Or several hot minutes. No, pretend I didn't say that. Oh, how will I ever clean the carpet? The carpet is white, and white takes stains so easily. Stains like the very Nordic race, my husband might say.

If my husband wasn't dead.

My husband is- no. There's no time for that. Good gracious, the carpet. The carpet is so very stained. I must have someone out right away. I must- the carpet.

My hands are stained, too. Stained with something black; isn't that funny? Tom married me because I was the most Nordic of them all. You can tell because I'm a blonde, or something like that. I stopped listening to his rambles ages ago. They're so dull.

The hard leather stained my hands black when I picked up the- no. No, I must wash this…grease? Off my hands. Though god knows we're not expecting company.

Black off my hands and red off the carpet. It's very expensive, this carpet. Everything in this house is very expensive, of course, but the carpet was cut to this room's funny shape just because it pleased me.

Isn't that nice?

People build whole worlds to please me. I am the Golden Girl, everyone says. That's just wonderful. That's just grand. That just makes me so transported with happiness that I could, why I could just put this cold steel thing in my mouth right now and twitch my finger.

I'm not real, you see. The carpet is real. The stain on it is real. The call it what it is gun is real. I'm just a figment, though; I'm not real. So I couldn't possibly have-

Oh, the bastard. He had it coming.

Mustn't think that. Tom is my husband. To love and to cherish and to honor and to obey until death do us part. That was what I promised, under the moss-hung trees when I was the most beautiful virgin bride. Except, darling, I wasn't actually a virgin. We must pretend.

He is dead. I don't have to obey anymore. Oh god. Who do I obey now?

Myself. Am I to be turned on the mercies of obeying myself? How terribly gauche. How unappetizing. I must ring up my old chum, Mister Jay-

He is dead, too. Guns, guns, everywhere dratted noisy guns. They kill more people here than in Chicago, I'm just absolutely convinced.

Tom is dead. Jay is dead. Someone must be about to rush in and take charge, someone for me to obey. Or obey by pretending to make them obey me. Nobody really obeys me, not even me. How horrible that would be; how bare and open. Girls who obey themselves end badly, you know. And what sad, mean things they are.

The gun falls from my hand. It doesn't make a sound because of the lovely soft thick carpet, even with the stain. No-one has come running. No-one was in the house but Tom and me and the baby.

The Baby is five years old now. Have you seen her? I must call for the nurse; you must see my blessed precious. One moment, sir. You'll love her. She's just enchanting.

I'd better get everything or that bastard can rot in hell for leaving us in the cold.

What an appalling thought! Was it mine? Surely not. I don't think, you know, as a rule. Thinking is bad for the complexion.

I must dash. I must dash lightly to the next room and scrub my hands at the gilt-edged sink with the gilt-edged mirror over it. I am beautiful. I am the Madonna of the decade. Everyone says so.

Will there be police? Dear me, I hope not. Police are so tiresome. Just a little bit of money makes them go away. A little bit of money makes everything bad go away and everything nice just flock to you. Give me money and a place to sit and I won't move the world one inch.

Now I must walk back, calmly.

Calmly? When is anything in my life ever calm? Calm is far too slow. But I am. Calm. Somehow. What an odd sensation! I must clean the carpet. I must get that beastly stain out.

I must put the gun in his hand. Make it look like suicide. Then scream bloody murder until one of the neighbors hears. I am so very pretty and so very innocent. It won't be at all difficult.

New thoughts, all of them. _Thoughts_, imagine that. I have a brain. That isn't good. I must see someone about that in the morning. Perhaps one of those new analysts; I hear they're just positively-

I just killed my husband.

I. Just killed. My husband.

No voice tells me not to think that. It's true. When has that ever stopped me before? But it's true. Where is the little voice of reason, the little bluebird in my ear? Is it gone?

Oh god. Even the sweet bluebird has deserted me. What's to become of poor little old me? When all that's left is- me.

I must get someone in to clean this red stain off the carpet. It's a disgrace. And my so-called provider, just lazing about like a bullfrog in spring on top of it rather than making it all better.

* * *

**A/N:** And there you go.


End file.
